Chapter 2 - August #2
Katar points his knife tip at me. “A laugh a day keeps the shivs away. Try smiling sometimes.”
I’m the shield. He’s my weapon. And Grayson is the glue that stops us from cracking.
They irritate the hell out of me. Sand does the same thing to a mollusk and makes pearls, right?
Something raw fashioned into something rare.
They’re my pearls, only they’re sharp and dangerous.
I’ll bleed for them both without hesitation.
I move on to the next item of business. “What did you find?”
Katar starts to clean and polish his blade with methodical precision. Swipe, turn, and inspect. A beloved ritual.
Grayson pulls up the Instagram comments under one of Katar’s thirst trap videos.
“Ah, some of my best work.” Katar praises his smokescreen of abs and thrusting hips.
Every time one of them goes viral, I grind my teeth so hard, I’m surprised I still have molars left.
All it takes is one slip, one facial recognition algorithm to ID him, and it’s not just our mission that burns.
It’s a death sentence to the thirty-two operatives working for us.
Five active strike teams, eight embedded informants, and seven specialists who supply critical evidence, all moving under the Romans’ noses.
My team. My responsibility. And Katar doesn’t lose sleep. I do.
He gets up to make Grayson and me a coffee from the barista machine my tech nerd insists we have on hand while we hole up down here. Steam hisses out, matching my waning patience for his fishing tactic.
It’s worked so far, and I permit it for several reasons.
One: Peacocking lowers Katar’s bloodlust and gives him a dopamine hit… along with the female population of the internet.
Two: Strategic reasons. The shirtless circus act is disguised as an espionage op, where Katar and Grayson work their magic, planting spyware in the DMs of the targeted women connected to Roman businesses or family members.
No one’s looking for the man hunting them when they’re drooling over him.
Even I can admit it’s impressive watching the data harvest come in.
Security codes to get in and out of Roman-owned buildings.
Passwords to hack into their tech. You name it, those two mine it.
Christ, if the Romans don’t kill us, the comments section will.
I want to be trapped in the house with this man.
I think I’m pregnant.
My basement just flooded.
Those women are obsessed. They’ve got a Discord server dedicated to him like he’s their god.
Frames tracking his tattoo placements. Theories on his scars.
One girl did a full astrological breakdown of his posts to track his lunar pattern.
These women can dismantle a cartel and all its agents with their research and slow-motion replays of his shadows and reflections.
I contemplate hiring these sleuths for our mission.
I’m pretty sure if they ever discover who he really is, they’ll still risk it. Some just want to fuck him, others fix him. And the pearl clutchers pray for him to repent his sins.
As for the third reason, Grayson assures me that he monitors every frame, strips metadata, and reroutes IP addresses to prevent the Romans from triangulating our movement and locations. And if he fails, I’ve promised to delete Katar.
“My system flagged this comment.” Grayson magnifies it in a screengrab.
“Come and tie me up and let me ride that knife.” Katar reads the actual comment as he stirs sugar into Grayson’s coffee mug with his weapon. “My kind of poetry.”
Knives are dangerous and shouldn’t be used recklessly, especially with a psychopath with bondage fantasies.
Grayson’s system flags Roman code in everyday content—slang, emojis, animals, and places. This one is decoded as danger, hiccup, beach. Gibberish unless you know their system.
I massage my temple. “If I see something like that again, I’m putting a bullet in the router.”
Katar’s smirk is all chaos and no sanity as he delivers the coffee. “I want to meet this Bad Little Smut $lut. She sounds like she can handle riding this devil.” His chest flexes under his shirt, pulling taut over his nipple rings.
“You won’t be so eager when you see who it is,” Grayson mutters, clicking forward, bringing up a new video of someone’s loungeroom.
“My dick’s game.” Classic Katar.
The camera pans a row of bookshelves lined with crude cock stickers, plush dicks, penis mugs, and enough X-rated merch to get banned in seven countries.
“For the love of God,” I mutter, shielding my eyes. “Warn us next time!”
“Don’t act like you haven’t seen a dick before,” Katar says with perverted amusement.
Working patrol, I’ve seen things that would make Satan flinch. But this? This is deranged.
“You’re assigned this one,” I tell Katar, waving at the screen. “Since you love cock so much.”
These BookTok Girlies are wild. Obsessed with morally bankrupt men they think they can tame. I need a Tylenol. Or a firewall. Both.
“There’s more.” Grayson’s mouth flattens.
More? Dear God, save me.
“You know this woman.” Grayson lets the rest of the video play.
Blonde hair with a riot of colors—purple, blue, orange, green, and pink streaks. Magnetic curves impossible to look away from. Hazel eyes that catch me off guard, highlighted with glitter eyeshadow and winged eyeliner. Did Elle Woods give birth to confetti?
I continue my appraisal. A luscious mouth made for sin—full, wicked, and wearing a smile that says she knows what she’s doing. Alive and full of color in a world of shadows. Every inch calculated to stand out, and I don’t trust someone who can’t blend in.
So why can’t I stop staring?
Katar waves a hand in front of my eyes. “Want me to get her number, or you a cold shower?”
Grayson grins and rubs his jaw. “He’s doing that micro-frowning thing. Does he need an ambulance?”
“I’m assessing a potential threat,” I say through gritted teeth.
Katar dips his knife into his coffee and licks the end. “A threat to your self-control.”
“He’s exhibiting classic lust denial.” Grayson delivers his line dry like his code.
Fuck them. I peel my eyes from the screen before I do something stupid like blink too slowly, and they interpret it as a sign that we’re soul mates.
“Who is she?” I croak.
Grayson pulls up her driver’s license, college degree, bank statements, and an article she published in the Shadow Lake Central.
But all I can see is her. She shouldn’t matter. But she does. A glitter-dipped liability with secrets under the gloss. If I look away, she’ll steal the sunlight and fill the sky with darkness.
“Kate Williams.” My blood runs cold at Grayson’s words. “Daughter of Charles Huntington, head of the Mercury Order.”
The throb in my temple picks up tempo as I lean forward. Different hair. Color and confidence. Louder. Sharper. Unapologetic. Same eyes, new fire. And a Roman, apparently. Bloodline. Legacy.
Katar stiffens. Silence and stillness are bad signs. Murder mode’s activated, and I can feel the bloodlust radiating off him.
I clamp a hand on his bicep. “You good?” I can’t have him kill a lead before we’ve had a chance to investigate it.
He blinks. Glances at the doorway and back at our reflection in a blank monitor. Smiles that lunatic smile. “Fine.”
He’s not, but I’ll take it for now.
Grayson grips the edge of the table. When Katar gets like that, it sets him on edge.
I redirect the conversation to re-center them. “I want everything on her. History, aliases, habits, weak points. I want to know what she wants, who she answers to, and why the hell she’s posting dick mugs on TikTok while Rome burns.”
Grayson nods and lets the video run its course to share more information.
Kate runs a stalker romance book club. She and her friends list the books they’re reading.
Stalker Next Door.
Carnival Stalker.
My Grumpy Mafia Stalker.
Spank Me, Daddy Stalker.
Werewolf Stalker for the Holidays.
That one ruined Christmas for me.
Katar seems back to his usual self when he hits me with the back of his hand and points at the screen. “There’s one about you. Grumpy Stalker.”
Asshole.
Kate rambles on about morally gray men like she wants to marry one.
“What in the absolute fuck?” I mutter and run a hand through my hair.
This is more than weird. Unhealthy. Deranged. Fucking triggering. Faces from old cases flash in my mind. Women stalked, murdered, ignored by the system built to fail them.
“I’ve seen enough.” I lean forward, hands over my face.
Grayson ends the video with a click. “I’m sorry, August. I didn’t think—”
Katar thumps me on the back.
I don’t respond. Can’t.
After a long beat, I straighten and look between them. “I want each of us on one woman. We tail them. In person.”
“I’m calling Murder Spice in the black.” Katar spins his knife. “She looks like a Hellcat.”
“I’ll take the redhead,” I say.
“No,” Grayson says, sharp and possessive. “She’s mine.”
“Looks like you got the unicorn, August.” Katar smirks and carves “Hellcat & Katar” into the desk.
I snatch his knife, stabbing it into the desk in front of him to get his attention. “Don’t make this personal. She’s our enemy.”
“Are we planting cameras?” Grayson scratches his lip with a thumb.
“You are.” He’s the tech guy, not me.
He stiffens. His white-knuckle grip on the remote gives him away. This is a big ask for a guy who hasn’t seen daylight in months. But he’s the only one who can do this. Katar will hotwire a bomb if I charge him to do it.
“I’ll go with you,” I offer. “We’ll do it together.”
Katar commences tattooing Hellcat into his arm with a new knife and a smile.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I snap.
He saunters off laughing, daring the world to stop him. I just hope he doesn’t take his target down with him.